


Candle Scent Ficlets

by inevitablethief



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Based on a candle scent, Episode: s14e01 Stranger in a Strange Land, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post Michael Possessing Dean, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-03-30 09:18:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13948527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inevitablethief/pseuds/inevitablethief
Summary: A series of Dean/Cas ficlets based off of scented candles.1.     Apple crisp is not the same as pie.2.     Everyone deserves a space of their own, even an Angel.3.     Cas lets Dean fight out his feelings in the gym.





	1. Apple Cinnamon Crisp

It was past midnight by the time Dean pulled the Impala into the bunker’s garage. He was sore and achy, and covered in some nasty green goo the revenant had released when they’d killed it—again. Sam was passed out in the passenger seat, and Dean gave him a shove.

“Sammy, we’re home.”

He stirred and looked around the car confusedly. “What?”

“Go turn in, man, I’ll handle unpacking,” Dean offered with a chuckle.

Sam gave him a grateful slap on the back and headed into the bunker without another word.

Dean took his time to get their duffels out of the trunk. He’d put down a couple blankets to protect Baby from the mess, so he pulled those out to wash them in the morning. He flicked the lights off and headed into the bunker.

He was hit by the most glorious smell in the world. He took a deep sniff.

Apples.

Cinnamon.

Flaky, delicious crust.

_Pie._

He headed to the kitchen where the smell intensified. 

“Hello, Dean,” Cas said, as soon as Dean entered. He’d taken off his trench coat and suit jacket, which were draped over a chair at the table. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and he’d put on a “Kiss the Cook” apron.

“Did you make pie?” Dean asked, his mouth already watering at the idea of his favorite treat.

“Uh, no.”

“But I smell pie,” Dean argued, stupidly because Cas would know if he’d baked a pie or not.

Cas crossed to the oven, opened it, and removed something that caused a rush of delicious smells to pour out. With his back turned to Dean, Dean couldn’t tell what it was, but it certainly smelled like pie.

He turned around with a flourish and displayed a dish full of what kind of looked like pie. His eyes crinkled at the corners in what only Dean would recognize as a proud smile.

“It’s apple crisp.”

Dean tried to hide his disappointment, but, as Cas’s face fell imperceptibly, Dean knew he had failed. 

“Dean,” Cas scolded.

“It’s just not the same, Cas,” he whined.

“Pie crust is…difficult.” Cas gestured to a pile of lumpy dough on the counter. “Apple crisp is easier, and it’s tastes just like pie.”

Dean stared at Cas in disbelief. “But it’s not pie.”

“Go get a shower, Dean,” Cas said flatly. “You’re disgusting.”

He busied himself with putting the crisp out to cool on a wire rack, then made a big deal about starting to clean the dishes. Dean knew he had no chance of making this alright, so he did as he was told and headed to the shower room to clean up.

He stripped down and stepped under the steaming water, letting it wash away the gunk and grime from the hunt. He dumped some of Sam’s fancy shampoo on his head, since ectoplasm was pretty hard to remove with the cheap stuff Dean usually bought. He was halfway through sudsing up his hair when it hit him. He rinsed off as best he could, jumped out of the shower, and slipped on his favorite dead guy robe.

He ran back to the kitchen, trailing water across the floors. “You made me almost pie,” he said, panting heavily.

Cas looked up from his task; his eyes crinkled again. “I made you almost pie,” he repeated as the smile spread across his whole face.

Dean closed the distance between them and took Cas’s face in his still-damp hands. He kissed Cas softly on the lips, relishing the still-new but familiar softness. It wasn’t long before Cas took control, claiming Dean’s mouth his with tongue. Dean had to pull away before things escalated.

“Uh,” he muttered dumbly. 

“You want pie, first,” Cas said, an understanding smile on his perfect face.

“It’s not pie,” Dean corrected him, then felt a blush rising on his cheeks. “But, yeah.”

Cas stole another kiss, then grabbed one of their big spoons and dished out a large bowl of his apple crisp. It actually looked—well, Dean didn’t think he was going to be missing pie any time soon.

“There’s vanilla ice cream, too.”

It was Dean’s turn to steal a kiss.


	2. Cozy Corner

Cas was gone again. Dean tried not to take it personally; the guy had important things to do after all. Still, it was hard knowing that Cas wanted to be anywhere but at the bunker with Dean. 

When Cas was around, Dean had someone cool to hang with. He could show Cas all the movies that Cas needed to watch, but Sam had already seen 100 times. Instead, Dean spent his lonely downtime making the bunker a better place to live: cooking good meals—complete with rabbit food for the little bro—and carving out a place for himself and the people he…uh…cares most about.

Maybe Cas would stick around if he had someplace just for him to come back to, somewhere for his Netflix, his Enochian books that neither Sam nor Dean can read, and the little things he’d collected over the years like a spare trenchcoat or whatever. 

It wasn’t like he needed a bed, ‘cause the guy didn’t sleep, but taking it out would throw out Dean’s back. Plus, beds were comfy for watching TV, and, uh, other things that Dean definitely wasn’t thinking about when he dragged another memory foam mattress down the bunker stairs. He piled a ton of pillows on top, and as many blankets as he could find at the closest Walmart; he even found a grumpy cat plushie in a Hot Topic when they were passing through Wichita. There was a shelf for his books and knick knacks, and, of course, a big screen TV Dean picked up second hand. He hooked up one of those boxes that would give Cas all the streaming services anybody could need and entered Sam’s passwords. 

He’d been working all day, and he was pretty exhausted. That bed looked awfully inviting, and Dean was sore. He’d just be testing the mattress, making sure everything was good enough for Cas. Nothing weird about that. He sank down into the bed; it was like lying on a cloud. Heh, he’d have to ask Cas about that once he had a chance to try out his new digs. He was so comfortable, he couldn’t help but close his eyes and soon he’d drifted off.

Dean didn’t know how long he’d slept for, but when he woke, he could tell he wasn’t alone. He peered out of a half-closed eye and caught sight of a trenchcoated arm and shoulder. His heart started racing. “Are you watching me sleep?” he asked, wiping crusties from his eyes. Annoyance had always proven a good cover for other feelings.

“Sam told me you were in here,” Cas said, the barest hint of a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “This isn’t your room.”

“No, uh,” Dean hesitated, sitting up. “This is for you. Your own little corner of the bunker.”

“It’s very cozy.”

“Damn right it is!” Dean grinned.

Cas leaned back into the pile of pillows on his side of the bed. Dean shook that thought out of his head as quickly as it came; it was Cas’s bed, which meant both sides of the bed were his.

“This _is_ very comfortable,” he sighed.

“You haven’t seen the best part, yet.” Dean grabbed the remotes from the nightstand and flipped on the TV set. It flickered to life and Dean selected the Netflix menu. “All your favorite shows, right here where you can...”

He wanted to finish with _stay_ , but the word—and all the _feelings_ that came with it—wouldn’t come out.

“I appreciate it,” Cas said, his smile widening till it was something anyone would recognize as a smile. It was a rare occurrence, and it made Dean’s heart sing. He tried to ignore it, but it just felt like too much work when he was surrounded by cozy comfort. “I haven’t watched the new season of _Jessica Jones_. Do you…?

“Yeah,” Dean breathed. He let Cas take control of the remote, so he could select the first episode, and settled back into the pillows. Cas sat up to wriggle out of his trench coat, letting it fall behind him before he picked it up and draped it onto one of the chairs, a comfy one Dean imagined Cas reading in. He draped one of the blankets around his shoulders instead and started the episode. 

“Thank you,” Cas said. His hand drifted into the space between them, his fingers brushing against Dean’s. Dean pulled his hand away in surprise. Cas acted like nothing had happened, but his hand stayed between them, taunting Dean—tempting him.

Halfway through the episode, Dean finally got up the courage—or the stupidity—to drop his hand back between them. Again, Cas brushed their fingers together. Dean didn’t pull his hand away but covered Cas’s hand with his own, entwining their fingers.

Cas didn’t say a word, his eyes still on the TV, but when Dean glanced over at him, he was smiling.


	3. Passion Punch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor spoilers for 14.01 and sort of for 14.02, though this was written before 14.02 aired.

Dean kicked a destroyed speedbag out of the way. “Geez, it’s a mess in here,” he said to Cas behind him.

“Bobby has been training Jack in here. He’s been improving.”

“You mean his grace is regenerating,” Dean countered.

Cas let out a brief chuckle, sending chills down Dean’s spine. It also reminded him that he was going up against a fully charged Angel himself in just a few minutes.

“I believe it was good for him to experience the more human side of himself. Weakness is a form of strength, in a way.” Cas moved to the bench by the wall and set down the mystery duffel he’d been carrying.

“Says the guy who can bench a car,” Dean grinned.

Cas shot him a disapproving scowl over his shoulder as he opened up the bag. “That’s why we have these.”

He held up two pairs of boxing gloves. They looked no different than the ones hanging lopsided on the wall behind him, but Dean had a sinking feeling that superficial appearances were about all they had in common.

“Whatcha got up your sleeve, Cas?”

“They’re imbued with sigils,” he explained. “With these on, it will be a fair fight.”

Dean was instantly filled with unease. “Can’t you just…pull punches or something?”

Cas puffed up his chest like a preening bird. “Do you think you’re a better fighter than I am without the aid of my grace?”

Dean chose his words carefully. “Uh…yeah,” he shrugged.

Cas’s eyes narrowed; the challenge was on. They both suited up without a word. Cas removed his trench coat, then his suit jacket, then his white button-down shirt. He wasn’t wearing a T-shirt, and Dean gulped at the sudden baring of so much tanned skin. He distracted himself by stripping down to the shorts he had on under his sweats, as Cas changed from his suit pants and boots into shorts and sneakers. It wasn’t long before they were as naked as they’d ever been together. Dean was already beginning to sweat.

“You sure about this?” Dean finally croaked out, taking a pair of gloves from Cas.

Cas narrowed his eyes in response and gloved up without answering Dean’s question.

“Standard rules?” Dean asked.

“No hitting below the belt,” Cas said with a smirk. He got into position like he’d actually boxed before, which Dean was pretty sure he hadn’t. The muscles in his arms and chest were flexed and jumpy, twitching with every minute shift of Cas’s arms.

This was a terrible idea.

Sure, he’d been pissy since Michael had vacated the premises, and he was grateful for Cas’s unique brand of gentle but no-nonsense hovering. It was better than Sam’s mother-henning, at least. Since Sam had vetoed hunts until Dean was feeling stronger, he was left without anywhere to vent. He wanted to hit, to kick, to fight for his life. He wanted to feel human again—to feel anything again. Sparring, though? Dean wasn’t sure about that—especially when faced off against Cas’s human muscles, which looked considerably more well developed—and distracting—than when covered by a variety of trench coats. 

Light on his feet, Cas was already practicing footwork, as if he expected Dean to start punching at any time. He jabbed a few times at the air, and his form wasn’t too bad. Even with his grace subdued by the sigiled gloves, Cas was a pretty daunting adversary.

“Dean,” Cas reprimanded, as if he knew Dean was still stuck in his own head.

“Sorry, I—” Dean’s stammering was cut off by a quick jab to his side. “Hey!”

Cas followed with a right hook that made contact with Dean’s jaw. His head swung in the opposite direction and stars formed behind his eyes. 

Dean shook out the daze and hit Cas with his own jab. The contact of his gloved fist against Cas’s firmly muscled shoulder made a satisfying thump that echoed through the otherwise silent room. He followed it up with a cross, pivoting his body into it. As it landed, Cas tipped back with a grunt, nearly losing his balance, but the pleased grin on his face reassured Dean he hadn’t hurt him. He regained footing and surged forward, hitting Dean with a jab, then going in close for an uppercut, then another. His fist against Dean’s chin was visceral and painful. Dean had never felt more alive.

He countered with several punches of his own. They were still in close corners, so the scent of their sweat was strong and fresh. The push and pull of their punches, the physical contact, the body heat and sweat—it was almost more than Dean could handle. He was beating on Cas, landing punch after punch until Cas grabbed him into a clinch. Dean continued to hit whatever he could reach, even as they were lined up along their whole bodies.

“Dean,” Cas said, his voice soothing but tough. “It’s okay.”

“I don’t wanna be like this anymore,” Dean faltered. He clutched onto Cas with both arms, sinking into his embrace.

Two thuds against the ground behind him forewarned the feeling of Cas’s hands in his damp hair. They were soft and gentle in the aftermath of all the violence. 

“You are stronger than this,” Cas murmured. “Just like you were stronger than him.”

“I don’t want to be strong anymore,” Dean sighed. He pulled back so that they were face to face instead of chest to chest. Cas’s mouth was inches away—plump, pink, and tempting. It needed just the tiniest push forward to taste it, and Dean wasn’t in a position to resist any longer.

There was the softest brush of lips, then Cas pushed forward, gripping Dean’s face as his mouth moved against Dean’s. The barest flick of a tongue pressed between Dean’s parted lips; he sucked on it until Cas moaned against him.

This was so much better than hitting each other. 

Finally, Cas pulled away and looked at Dean; his eyes sparkled, and his cheekbones glistened with moisture. “Huh, I guess you do sweat,” Dean mused.

“Sometimes,” Cas shrugged.

Dean waggled his eyebrows. “Then let’s hit the shower.”


End file.
